Faith to Get By
by Mouse of Turin
Summary: What good is a healer who can't heal? What becomes of a sister without family, or a priestess without belief? The world is not what she thought it was. Natasha navigates through life, death, and faith with the help of her support convo buddies. Rated for death and violence.
1. Confusion

_The pragmatic survive, and the determined thrive, but faith manages. -Babylon 5_

 **Chapter One: Confusion**

The soldiers come for Father McGregor during the morning service. They file in, more than necessary to arrest a single aging priest, and wait quietly in the back for him to finish the service. As the worshippers murmur aloud their closing prayers, McGregor bends his neck and says something to the young sister standing beside him at the altar. Though his voice is low and strained, Natasha hears the words of her mentor clearly.

"The Emperor has gone mad. He seeks to destroy each of Magvel's Sacred Stones," he says without preamble. "First, he targets Renais, but he will target them all in turn. The Stones are all that keep evil at bay. He must not be allowed to achieve this goal."

"Pardon me?" replies Natasha, because that's really the only thing she can say to such a claim.

"They will kill me for holding this knowledge," McGregor says. "But the nations must be warned. You must warn them, Natasha. The emperor has gone mad."

"I... I don't understand," she says.

"Neither do I," says the priest. "I have the answer to one question, and from it sprouts a thousand more." His arm, outstretched towards the ceremonial candles, trembles, but just for a moment.

Natasha's forehead crinkles as she peers over her shoulder at the soldiers. "Why are these men here?"

With a hand to her shoulder, McGregor prompts her to face the altar. "They're here for me. And since they have witnessed me conversing with you, they may take you too, if you don't slip out now."

"I beg your pardon?" says Natasha, blinking hard in confusion. "What are you suggesting? Are you quite certain of what you say, Father?"

He gives a tight, pale smile. "Entirely so. I am sorry to pull you into all this, dear child. I had so hoped not to involve you. Alas, it cannot be so. Go, now, Natasha, before the liturgy is finished. You may yet steal away."

She hesitates, and Father McGregor turns his face to look at hers for just a moment. She has never seen him afraid before. "The emperor will break the Sacred Stones. This I know. You must tell the King of Renais," he repeats.

What can she do but obey? Natasha directs her steps towards the back curtain. As she leaves, she hears him utter a blessing upon her. _May the Light shine with you and before you in all the shadowy places where you must walk._

Natasha ducks behind the sanctuary and in a moment of complete confused panic, hides in a small closet full of stiff ceremonial robes, pressing her fingers to her temples. Her mind may as well be a bowl full of a hundred eels, too slippery to catch and too ugly to want to even if she could. Eventually a swell of sounds from the sanctuary reaches her ears: weeping and sobs, mostly. She understands that the soldiers have indeed taken her mentor. She remains in the closet, listening to the footfalls of soldier boots clicking up and down the corridor. They are searching for her. She hears them address an acolyte, inquiring politely for her, but they don't look into any closets or cupboards. When she doesn't immediately materialize, they leave.

She stays the night at her usual bunk, hugging herself, not talking to anyone. The following morning, several grim altar boys bring news to the Imperial Temple that Father McGregor is dead, his head in a basket at the Emperor's request. Also, soldiers have been dispatched to search for the young sister who has gone traitor along with him. Natasha looks around her and finds that the ancient church, with its stained-glass windows full of stories, its vaulted arches pointing to heaven, and its precious volumes of ancient scripture – the place most familiar to her in all the world – is suddenly very foreign and she is a stranger there. She could swear that she's the size of an ant, standing on the broad wheel of a massive wagon. The ground beneath her is turning, she can feel it; her solid ground is about to become the mass that crushes her, but all she can do is close her eyes, cover her ears, and muffle her scream. But after that, she remembers her mentor's last command and it gives wings to her feet. She slips some bread and a few coins from the temple stores into her little drawstring purse, whispering a small plea for forgiveness as she does so. She leaves through a side door without saying goodbye.

* * *

The hems of her clerical robes are in tatters and she has mud stains to her knees by the time she reaches the border town of Serafew. Though her flight has been as fast as a terrified cleric can stumble along, she does not regard her arrival as a result of her speed. It may be a miracle that she's made it so far – or more probably the gift of blind eyes granted to her by soldiers who don't savour the idea of arresting a sister.

She's not sure what exactly she plans to do in Serafew, or who she'll tell, but it's near her home village, and it's near Renais. Being close to home will have to do, since the temple is home no longer.

The guards at the gate are more interested in a dancer on the street than in Natasha, so she is almost able to duck inside before one of them spots her. In a moment of panic, she tries to dart away, but her flight is quickly arrested by a strong hand on her arm.

"Where do you think you're going, Sister?" the guard says, almost musing to himself.

"East," she replies. "My companions have already gone ahead. I'm in a hurry to catch them, sir." It is the first lie she has told in her life.

The guard looks at her quizzically. "East? Nobody's passed that way for days. Not with the war. It's not safe."

"I assure you, good sir, I'll be fine," she insists. "My family is in that area."

The man shakes his head but releases her arm. "Not likely. Not with that contingent from Renais coming. You'd best go further in country. No doubt your folks have already fled that direction."

Renais? Natasha startles. "It's not like that!" she exclaims. "I have to go!"

The guard grimaces and sets his jaw. "No can do, Sister. I can't in good conscience let you through."

"Oh, please let me go! I have a very important message to deliver!" It's a slip, but she is not well-versed in telling lies or keeping secrets.

The guard sighs. He knows. Things happen rapidly after that. He places a heavy hand on her shoulder and begins to pull her closer. Natasha reacts, yelping and throwing herself backwards in a bid for freedom. With her force, she succeeds – in both removing herself from the guard's hand and in propelling herself directly into the guard's partner behind her – and his unsheathed blade. It catches her upper underarm, leaving behind a long, deep red ribbon of blood that immediately begins dripping.

"What the – a sister, Aelfric!" The first guard roars profanity at his partner, who stumbles back in surprise at the blood. Natasha grips her wound and darts through the gate while the guards are briefly occupied with each other. Eventually the second man shouts up the alarm.

She stumbles through the city square, still unsure of what she plans to do next. Strike out east? Hide? Tend to her arm? Father McGregor had trusted her, she reminds herself - or perhaps he was as desperate and as without options as she. She's not trained to carry this kind of knowledge. She's not trained in politics or espionage. This was never part of her job! Her job is to say prayers and light candles. Her job is to maintain the faith! _Faith gets you by,_ he had always assured her, as if it were faith that should carry her instead of the reverse. But it is not faith that propels her feet; it is fear. She is terrified – terrified of failing her mentor, terrified of getting it wrong, terrified of discovering that she doesn't understand a thing, anything at all, and that if she gets caught here, she won't even have this one success to explain why her life had to unravel.

But then, she encounters the Jehann mercenary with the crooked hat and crooked grin, who flips a coin and decides not to kill her. He takes her under wing and delivers her safely to the princess of Renais. She thanks the blessed Light for its protection, but she's also quite aware that the rogue cheated on the coin toss.

The princess and her general listen to Natasha's message, and she nearly collapses with relief at that burden's removal. Concerned by her weakness, the princess sends her to be tended to, welcoming her with water and a meal that she will eat once she realizes she is hungry. But the Frelian medic with the moustache is suspicious of her – all in the contingent are – so Natasha tends to her own arm while he holds a whispered consultation with the general. Her hand shakes uncontrollably as she holds her staff to the wound. The healing magic comes, weak and uneven. She chokes back a sob and forgets the staff for the bright crimson staining the white of her robes. She is sullied, and hardly recognizes her arm as her own. Who is this, waiting to be stanched and bound up? The trembling moves up her staff hand, through her arm, and into her whole body, until she fights to keep her teeth from chattering.

"My child," the Frelian medic says, stooping to scoop up the staff she has dropped and to catch her downcast eyes. Suspicious of her though he may be, he looks upon her with kindness and tenderly supports her injured arm. "Forgive my hesitation. Allow me to mend your wound. And after that, child, if you wish to talk or to pray, I am here to serve you."

Like the child he addresses her as, she folds her head into her uninjured arm, tucks up her knees, and cries.


	2. Determination

**Chapter Two: Determination**

The least she can do is lend Moulder her aid around the healing tents. He takes her under wing, and though Natasha has little to say to him, she would repay his kindness. She is wary of a mentor, after her previous one so effortlessly flipped her world upside down. For how long had Father McGregor been keeping secrets from his flock?

From the vantage point of her seat in the Renaisian contingent, Natasha can see the scouring of the land and its people, and holds to blame both her native land and the unholy beasts with which they are in league. It seems simple enough to call foul on Grado, but then again, perhaps it isn't. If she's learned anything from her recent adventure, it's that belief may be simple, but reality is defiant of simplicity. But since she does not know anything anymore, she functions based on what she can see. She can see need. She can see suffering. She can see hideous fiends attacking those who are kind to her. And so, she does what she can to relieve the ugliness around her.

When the company receives word that Princess Eirika's brother is being held captive at Renvall, they respond with a quick march to rescue him. Natasha rolls up her stained sleeves and determines that if she can't pick her way out of her own mess, at the very least, she will not trip up anyone else. She will carry her own burden, and others, as she has been taught to do. That, at least, she still believes is right.

Called with a small company to follow Eirika and her two generals into the fortress, Natasha expects to lend succour to a damaged, captive prince. Instead, she watches the princess's face as one general – the younger one with the silver armour – denounces the other for treason of the blackest kind. She reads in Eirika's face the devastation of betrayal, then the stone hallways around her resound with armoured feet, rough calls, and brandished weapons. Watching, it barely registers in Natasha's mind that anything must be done to escape alive from the situation, but General Seth – the loyal one – grabs her shoulder and with one swift, firm movement, puts himself between Natasha and the oncoming Grad soldiers.

She is caught, as in a vise – unable to stay but unable to run. All around her is death, yet she stands surrounded by the most elite warriors of Renais – of Renais! – and they protect her from her countrymen. Death does not reach her.

The noise, the smell, the sounds, the utter seriousness of the confrontation wash over her until one sound cuts clear above the rest – an ear-wrenching scream from close at hand. Natasha snaps out of her reverie to witness the young man tumble to the cold floor, dropping his sword and grasping his leg. The urgency of his cry is such that there is nothing Natasha can do but run to his side. Immediately she is on her knees, seeking a clear assessment of his injury. His leg is still attached, but bleeding ferociously. By the strong pulsating flow, she knows a major blood vessel must have been severed, and that if it weren't for her presence here, he would bleed out in a matter of minutes. The healing energy begins to flow through her staff, clearing up some of the torn flesh.

But she takes no mind to her surroundings, and the opponent who dealt the man this blow, though momentarily distracted by a scuffle on his other side, turns again to see what has become of the opponent at his back. Natasha feels, rather than sees, him approaching. Her hands become still and she looks up. His uniform is of Grado, and his eyes are cold. His uniform is of Grado, and there is no one between her and him. His uniform is of Grado, and he will definitely kill her.

She raises one arm in what she knows will be a useless attempt to shield herself, her other arm still desperately trying to stanch her patient's wound, and cries, "I'm not your enemy!"

"Yes, you are! Curse you!" her executioner barks and swings back his blade to bring down upon her. It's a fearsome blade, already slick with blood, but Natasha can't break her eyes away from the man's face – streaked with red, twisted in a sneer, and raging with primal fury.

But when the blade falls, it slices wildly off course, striking the wall and then glancing off the floor. The man stumbles heavily to catch his balance, reeling under the impact of one General Seth's body check. The general moves with him, and slices deep into the man's clavicle before he can ever regain his footing. The man's corpse lying near at hand, Seth and Natasha's eyes meet momentarily. There is fury in Seth's face, as there was in the other man's, though his fury seethes rather than rages.

"Mind your surroundings, Sister," he commands, then nods at her patient. "See what you can do for him."

But she can't stop the bleeding. The man is still conscious, and tries to help her, holding his leg and applying as much pressure as he can, but even with the help of her staff, she can't seem to slow the throbbing stream of blood that runs beneath her fingers.

"I'm gonna die!" the soldier exclaims, "Oh, gods, I'm gonna die!"

"Stop saying that!" Natasha replies, "The gods don't want you yet! More pressure!" She tries again and again to wipe away enough blood to find its source, but the blood vessel must have retracted up his leg after being severed, and she cannot find it to cauterize or regenerate it. Her magic is not strong enough to reach where she does not see. In fact, it is hardly strong enough to reach what she _can_ see. Her staff glows dimly, but try as she might, she cannot make the magic flow smoothly. It's as if the stream of healing energy is clogged up in its path by fallen brambles and thistles. As the horror of her impending failure looms larger, so, too, do the images in her mind of blood and fury.

Her patient first falls silent and then he falls into darkness. Eventually the bleeding stops, but not because she has healed him.

Though they are hard pressed on every side, the inner halls of the fortress prove to be a boon to the company from Renais – there is little space for large confrontations, so most combat is one-on-one, and those in this company are elites. They hold out long against their opponents, and then the gods, or fate, or Lady Luck, decide to smile upon them. A young man decked out in the most regal, yet tattered, cape that Natasha has ever seen appears with a spear and some knights, and together with Eirika's company make short work of the rank and file in Renvall.

When Natasha finally sees daylight again, she hardly notices. She goes round from injury to injury, forcing what power she can from her faulty staff, her focus so driven that the dam holding back the magic breaks. She tends wounds and speaks softly, but she is steel.

She realizes from the wide-eyed staring that she had better find new robes. She is, after all, still technically a priestess, not a maiden freshly born from the womb of some dark goddess, though the livid red of her dress suggests otherwise.

* * *

In Frelia, Natasha is numbered with those assigned to travel with Prince Ephraim, for so the young man with the cape and spear turns out to be. They go back into her homeland to end the war and seek redress. She is not surprised that Eirika goes east, most companions turned away. Natasha recalls well Eirika's face the moment she was betrayed. Though, she is surprised that even the silver general is turned away. Perhaps the princess wishes the one person she still trusts to guarantee her brother's life. In any case, General Seth comes with them.

They meet with resistance en route, of course. A confrontation at the border, and skirmishes here and there. Natasha throws herself into her craft, healing all until she can no longer break through that dam that seems to close up every time she leaves off, threatening to render her staff nearly useless. Even when she is too spent to heal, she continues tending the wounded, applying balms, cleaning bandages, checking for infection. Always her words are kind and encouraging, if she's not quite sure she believes them herself, and she has a soft smile waiting for those in her care. This is what she is trained for. This is what she will do.

They fight at Fort Rigwald, an impossible, impenetrable fortress that proves neither impossible nor impenetrable. It does, however, prove costly. Nobody is able to keep Natasha back in the healing tents. She darts to and fro on the battlefield itself, providing succour and support. More than once, she finds herself on the front lines, and multiple times she has to thank a comrade for intervening on her behalf. The mercenary from Jehanna saves her more than once.

In the aftermath, when the moon is up, Natasha finally stumbles to a quiet corner of the healing tent where a small stool awaits her. Sighing deeply, she sits, drops her hood, and leans her head into her hands with her elbows on her knees. For a moment she massages her scalp, then suddenly she is in the dirt and can't remember how she got there. Father Moulder puts a cool wet cloth on her forehead and gives her a sweet syrup to drink, with firm orders to go to bed. She obeys.

But the following morning, she is once again a whirlwind of activity, her white robes billowing as she dashes from patient to patient amid the rows of cots and blankets. The pain they suffer is immense, and she visits the supply cabinet to collect another handful of willow bark to make a tea to dampen it. The supplies are kept at the back of the healing tent, where no one has cause to go unless they know the differences between alder and elm. Nevertheless, that is where General Seth turns up when Natasha has collected her ingredients.

"Sister Natasha?"

"Oh, General Seth! How do you fare? What can I do for you?"

He folds his arms and looks her up and down, making no effort to hide it. "I am well," he responds, and he appears to be so, "and so are many who have you to thank for it. But I would have you take better care of yourself before you take care of everyone else."

Natasha blinks hard as if the idea has hit her between the eyes.

General Seth continues, "It's not that I don't appreciate the care you give to our wounded, Natasha. I do. We all do. But it would be small gratitude to work you to death."

"You're doing nothing of the sort, General," Natasha replies. "I cannot help myself from doing whatever I can whenever-"

"No indeed, it appears you cannot." There may be hints of a wry smile on the general's face, but he is a difficult man to read. "You see an injured man or woman and pay no heed to the battle around you, but rush headlong into danger. It's a small miracle that we've successfully kept you from harm thus far."

"Oh," Natasha stammers. "It is the opposite of my intention to be a burden to you or any others. I hadn't thought of the obligation to protect me that you and others would feel."

"Of course we want to keep you alive. You're not a burden, you're indispensable. But if you're not careful, you'll end up dead on the battlefield and then where will we be?"

"One healer short, I suppose." She says it nearly under her breath, but something about her tone seems to displease the general. His eyebrows rise, but he unfolds his arms and his voice softens slightly.

"I hear that you collapsed last night, after running yourself ragged. How are you now?"

"I am well-rested and refreshed. I didn't mean to worry you so."

"I'm sure you didn't," he sighs, "but your behaviour is reckless." He pauses. "When you first joined us at Serafew, I didn't know whether we should trust you. You're from Grado, after all, and we've all see what treachery those people are capable of. But I've been watching you. You're full of kindness and compassion. And also of sheer doggone determination to help in any way possible. I would trust my life to you." He pauses again, looking her directly in the eyes. "But I'm not sure I can trust _your_ life to you."

Natasha breaks his gaze and looks down, breathing hard. Seth folds his arms once more.

"Between Prince Ephraim, Princess Eirika, and you, everyone seems hellbent on throwing their lives away. I might as well package you up together and send you straight to Grado Keep. At least that way I can watch all three of you at the same time."

"Then, what _am_ I supposed to do?" she asks softly, backed up against the herb cabinet.

The general's displeasure seems to pass. "I'm not going to prohibit you from the battlefield. The troops have taken to calling you the 'Healing Spirit', and so you are. But I would have you value your own life a little more, along with the lives of others. Value steadfastness over valor. And get more rest."

Natasha's face scrunches up. "The 'Healing Spirit'? I'm hardly a healing spirit."

"Sister Natasha," says Seth firmly, waiting until she looks at him. "When even the common soldier from Renais or Frelia can see that you, a Grad and a turncoat, are a 'Healing Spirit', then you really shouldn't argue the point."

"But-"

He puts a hand on her upper arm and steps close enough to look her square in the face. The set of his jaw is stern, but his eyes are compassionate. "Grado doesn't know what she's lost by losing you, Natasha, but I know that you, personally, have lost a homeland, a mentor, and perhaps much more. But let me assure you, you have not lost everything. Don't throw away what you have left."

When Seth leaves, she boils the tea and continues her work, ministering to the injured and the dying, but she has fewer words to share with her patients. The words from the general demand too much attention, and they go round and round her head, just like the washtub water goes round and round with her soiled garments in the hands of the laundress.


	3. Management

**Chapter Three: Management**

The blond hair first makes her think he's from Grado, but his accent clearly gives him away as Renaisian. She's seen this young cavalier around from time-to-time – General Seth's protégé. The day following their discussion in the healing tent, the young man shows up and nearly falls over himself trying to be useful to her.

He is a pleasant companion and doesn't pry, so Natasha is grateful for his presence. From him she receives a bespoke satchel, and more importantly, the warmth of friendship. Friendship on command of the general, Natasha thinks likely, but the lad is so generous and in such earnest, that she can't hold the reason for their first acquaintance against him.

He tells her about his elder brother, with whom he has recently been reunited, about the girl, Amelia, whom he plucked out of the carnage of Fort Rigwald, and about his mother, of whom he has no memento but a comb and a portrait. He also speaks of how he rode alone in the night from Castle Renais to bring word of the Grad attack to Frelia. He had to break through Grad lines, dodge wyverns, and petition the foreign king for aid. He couldn't be more than sixteen. Natasha doesn't understand how he can still be so sure of his hope and trust, given the record of his life, but she longs for it herself.

"You seem to be holding up quite well through all this," she comments to him one day as he helps her wash bandages.

"Well, I'm not dead, I guess," he responds, flexing his hands as if to ascertain that it's true. "But I am pretty amateur-ish. At least I'm handy. It's probably my only redeeming trait."

Natasha chuckles, despite herself. "You are much more than handy, Franz," and she hears in her encouragement the echo of words spoken to her. "You have a pure heart, and that is a special brand of power. It's stronger than spears, and something few can match."

Franz blushes. "Well… thank you. I mean, you're a priestess, so you would know about that kind of thing. I'll try to live up to your praise."

When next the company gallops off into battle, purportedly to rescue the turncoat General Duessel, of all people, Natasha attempts to take Seth's words to heart and hangs back from the front lines. Perhaps she does this as much to protect Franz as to protect herself, as he still seems suspiciously to linger near her.

The end of the battle sees both healer and cavalier without any missing parts, and breath still in their lungs. General Duessel has joined their ranks, but Natasha doesn't give it much thought. She has long since given up trying to make sense of the world around her, much less its politics. Though she may no longer see clearly the difference between right and wrong, she can still identify innocence. She is drawn to it. It sings to her. It is likely what first drew her to the temple, and it draws her now to Franz.

What she lost when her mentor turned her world upside down, she seeks to draw back from the bright lad, and though he can't fully understand, he would allow her if he could. He attempts to give Natasha his mother's comb for good luck, but she tells him that he should keep it. Franz is confidence and comfort enough for her. He becomes her good luck charm. She is less lonely with him around, and he keeps some of her darker thoughts at bay. While he is near, her magic flows a little more smoothly.

* * *

The man she meets at Bethroen also has blond hair, but his accent is undeniably from southern Grado. His face is as battered and scarred as his shoulders are slumped. Whatever Franz represents, Cormag represents the opposite, and yet Natasha finds that he also is gentle and compassionate. He comes to her first with a bedraggled kitten in need of assistance.

"Poor little guy," she clucks. "You're a long way from your mother." The cat has a long gash running up its forepaw and another patch of missing fur on its rump.

"Can you heal him?" the gruff wyvern knight asks.

She takes the kitten to a bowl of water and gently washes clean its wounds. Then she takes her staff in hand, and though there is one false start, she closes the gash. The small animal rewards her by rousing from its listlessness and mewling loudly.

Cormag takes the cat back and mounts his wyvern to return it to its mother. That a warrior so powerful and a beast so ferocious should make the effort to help one down-and-out kitten nearly brings Natasha to tears, though she doesn't know why. She knows only that the kitten is the safest it will ever be, held securely to the fighter's chest on its way back home.

The company lingers in Bethroen for some time, difficulties arising with regards to chartering vessels to cross the strait to Taizel. The locals won't sail for fear of a phantom ship, but Natasha is almost eager to take to the sea. She doesn't believe in ghosts. Not while the sun is up.

During the several days of downtime, she runs into Cormag again. He tells her that his brother, Glen, is one of Grado's imperial three generals, and Natasha's own sense of disillusionment suddenly seems to shrink in size. If she has abandoned her homeland and is struggling to get by on faith, Cormag has spat out all he once held dear and is raging against the gods.

Yet he has thoughtful words for her. He asks after her family, and assures her that it is unlikely they have met a violent end at the hands of those from Renais. These are comforting words to hear from one more confounded than she. If even he believes such to be true, it must be so. But Cormag cannot beat a path out of this mess for her. Over a dinner of gruel, she asks him what he makes of the war, and he scoffs.

"Well, it's ironic, isn't it?" he drawls. "We have to slaughter our comrades to save them. We have to abandon our families to do right by them. We have to betray our lords to honour them. Up is down and black is white and air is exactly what you can't breathe."

"I've lost my sense of right and wrong," Natasha tentatively admits.

"You've lost your sense?" Cormag replies. "Grado has lost its sense! And it's up to us to set things to right."

"I don't think _I'm_ big enough to do that," she says, remembering the kitten in his strong arms.

"Who the hell is?" he snaps back, but then softens. "You have no debt to pay in this. You have no guilt to carry and nothing to be ashamed of. But you are from Grado, and if you love her, you'll do what you can to pick her up out of the mud, to restore her to something worth loving."

"I do want to," she agrees. "But I don't know how."

Cormag doesn't answer immediately, but looks at his wooden bowl, frowning in silence.

"You're on the right track," he says finally. "At least, I hope you are, because I'm sure lost."

She has to be brave, for him, so she touches his arm. When he glances at her, she juts her chin out with pride, just a little, and lets her eyes flash. He huffs and goes back to eating his oats, but accepts her touch.

* * *

The man with the crooked hat and crooked grin does not have golden hair, but he does have a gold coin constantly flipping in the air. He calls out to her once when she bustles past the empty space used for sparring. His eyebrows are raised in disbelief.

"So, you're all still in one piece, then?" he notes. "I trust to luck myself, you know, but you were really throwing yourself into her arms back there at Rigwald."

Natasha ducks her head. "I have been reprimanded for it," she admits, then remembers their first encounter in Serafew. "Though, it would seem that you make your own luck, more than you truly trust her whims."

"I don't know what you're talking about," the man replies, still grinning.

"I'm sure you don't, Joshua," Natasha shrugs with small smile. "Nevertheless, I thank you for looking out for me."

"Hey, I hate to see a beautiful woman in trouble," he replies. "But you know what I love to see? A beautiful woman making a wager. How about it?"

She chuckles. "I have nothing to wager, but heads."

He tosses the coin into the air, a shiny, spinning disc glinting in the sun. "All of life is a gamble, Sister."

"Says the man who decides the outcome of his own coin flips," she retorts playfully before he reveals the face of the coin. Heads. Whether it's luck or flirtation, she doesn't know, but it feels like a good omen for the days ahead. She leaves the walking contradiction with his sermons on trusting the unknowable and takes stock of the cooling salve left in their supply: if she doesn't make more, they'll run out next battle. That's for certain.

Eventually boats are procured and Prince Ephraim leads his ever-growing army across the sea to discover that the undead are not exactly ghosts, but _are_ freakishly difficult to kill. There are casualties, and then more in Taizel. Dame Selena does not follow Duessel's lead, not even after talking with Cormag. Despite feeling that her own life, if not the entire war, might be just a cosmic coin toss of the gods, Natasha holds steady. She is calm and collected, and fancies that she may have found her new equilibrium. She mends and tends and Franz hovers nearby, at least when he's not seeking out the girl from Rigwald. If she's not at peace, Natasha is, at least, managing.

Yet, whenever the sun goes down, her doubts come back and she stays up all night, doing any work she can find to keep the ghosts from haunting her. Seth ends up reprimanding her again for not getting enough rest, but at least he no longer complains of her recklessness.

* * *

There are many rumours about Prince Ephraim circulating through Grado: stories of his wild brutishness top the list, spiced up with whispers of exploits of another kind with his own sister and his men. On the other hand, everyone, including Prince Ephraim, is in agreement about Prince Lyon. Prince Lyon is a gentle soul, a nurturing spirit, and a dedicated servant to the people of his nation.

Yet when Natasha witnesses the conversation between the two princes in the cavernous throne room of Grado Keep, there is no question in her mind as to which man she will stand behind. There is some question, however, whether both princes are, in fact, men. Seeing as sons tend to be the same species as their fathers, and Emperor Vigarde's corpse literally disintegrated into dust the moment he had Reginleif through his chest, Natasha wonders how much humanity is left in her nation's prince.

He arrives in the throne room, swaddled in the thick purple robes of a prince and scholar, looking for all the world completely unconcerned that his capital is overrun, his father dead, or that he's looking down the wrong end of every weapon in the vicinity.

"Hello, Ephraim," he snorts from the dais.

"Lyon!" Prince Ephraim shouts. "What the hell has happened with Grado?"

"Oh, look. You killed my father. What a good little plaything you are."

"Answer me, Lyon! You're a peace lover! What is this all about? Why didn't you stop your father? Speak!" He points to Lyon with his spear in hand, making a fairly no-nonsense image.

Lyon does answer, though it's not anything the Renaisian prince expects to hear. Although, after all he's been through, it's quite possible he had no idea _what_ to expect. But Lyon does confirm one thing for them. With a hideous sneer, he spits on the ground.

"I'm going to destroy the Stones, Ephraim, one by one. Grado's is dust. Frelia's is dust. Jehanna's will soon be dust. That leaves yours, and Rausten's. But not for long. I'm coming for you. It's my dream come true!"

Hearing it stated so definitively by the one member of the Grad royal family that she knows her mentor had cause to interact with confirms not only the truth of the warning he entrusted to her, but also shines a light on a question Natasha has long been trying to avoid: Just how deeply was Father McGregor involved in all this? Her stomach is already in knots on account of the surrounding battle, but now all her other organs seem to churn to a stop, as well.

Her situation is not helped when Lyon suddenly takes note of her at the far end of the room, where General Seth told her to wait. Lyon peers over Ephraim's shoulder and they lock eyes. The distance is irrelevant: it is the vilest, most hate-filled stare she has ever seen, and it's accompanied with a smile so twisted that his face looks like it's made of melting wax.

"A temple priestess," he croons, "How apropos. I have your Reverend Father here as my guest. Would you like to see what's left of him?"

When she comes to, she is on a cot in the healing tent, with General Seth apologizing for allowing her to serve with the forward company. She doesn't respond. She can't say anything.

 _There is no good reason for the war._

 _The emperor was undead and the prince is a depraved lunatic at best._

 _Father McGregor helped start all this._

Something fragile dies inside her.


	4. Devastation

**Chapter Four: Devastation**

In the dungeons of the keep they find a pale and skinny man who looks like he'll collapse under the weight of his scholar's robes. His name is Knoll, and he provides Ephraim with a good deal more information than Lyon did.

Natasha restrains herself from accosting him with her own questions for several days, seeing as the man likely needs time to adjust to no longer being slated for execution, and to put on a few pounds. But eventually she can wait no longer. Under pretense of knowing better than he what food he ought to eat for dinner, she hunts him down loitering on the edge of camp, puts the tray of buckwheat pudding and cheese into his hands, and politely requires him to sit. Though he's had several days in the sun, he has no more colour than before, and the shadows under his eyes are more, not less, noticeable.

He is reluctant to eat and reluctant to answer questions but does both. She gathers that he is used to following orders. Natasha asks directly whether he ever met Father McGregor, which he confirms, and then proceeds to pepper him with all the questions, formed and half-formed, that have been circling the shadowy corner of her mind since that fateful morning in the temple.

"Our work, in summary, was to research the Dark Stone and to find a way to use its power to alter future events," he mumbles. "The prince was already using it to foresee the future, but knowing the future means little if you can do nothing about it."

"The Stone had that kind of power?"

"Well, the demon inside it did," Knoll nods. "Our research into spells to control it failed. And thus, we mages triggered the worst disaster to befall Magvel in eight hundred years."

It takes a few moments for his words to process in her mind, but after what she witnessed in the throne room, she does not doubt his explanation. "But, to manipulate fate like that…" she trails off.

"It's blasphemous, right?" Knoll supplies. "That's what your Father McGregor said. But he went along with it in the end, though he loathed us. Sacrificed his own soul for the greater good or something like that."

"Father McGregor wasn't like that," she protests, weakly.

"Like what?" he shrugs. When she doesn't answer, he turns the question back on her. "Would _you_ let thousands die to preserve fate?"

"What kind of counsel did Father McGregor give?" Natasha presses. "What was his role in the matter? What contributions did he make to the project? Did he offer up prayers for guidance and seek the blessing of Latona for your project? At what point did he turn against you?"

Knoll chuckles, despite himself. "And here I thought we'd be like oil and water. Clerics and mages usually are, but maybe you're more mage than cleric, despite your dress."

"What do you mean?" Natasha frowns.

"Your magic, light magic, stems from faith in the unknowable," he explains, pausing to lick his dry lips. "Our magic, dark magic, even anima magic, is based on knowledge and understanding. We're distrustful of what we don't know, and so strive to know everything."

"I know that," Natasha agrees. She's not completely uneducated, after all.

"But you," he continues, "You're so full of questions that the most learned shaman would grow weary. Perhaps you missed your calling."

Natasha bites her tongue, and in the silence Knoll puts a spoonful of buckwheat into his mouth. He doesn't swallow immediately, but sits listlessly with his mouth full as if the whole process of eating isn't worth the doing.

Eventually Natasha finds her voice again. "Do you think your research was evil?"

"Yes." Knoll sighs heavily. "I deeply lament our need to understand, our greed for knowledge. But you know what, Sister? It's all I have."

* * *

In Grado, the wind whistles when it blows, but in Jehanna, the land is too empty to make noise beyond the dull roar of burnt sand being eternally picked up and set down on some new dune. The landscape constantly shifts, but remains only dry sand from one generation to the next. The wind snaps into sunburned necks, eyes, and mouths, as it does now, as if the sky itself is conspiring to help Prince Ephraim drive his army forward faster and further. News has reached the prince that his sister is holed up in the desert country's royal palace, and she's barely holding out against Caellach and Valter's combined forces. They rush to her aid, or to her funeral.

They have run out of balm by the time the inferno of the palace is in sight. They have water left to drink a little, but not enough to clean any bandages, or even to wash the grit off their faces, much less to fight the flames. But they do still have their staves and their healers, and trusting them to be their support as always, Ephraim's company charges into the swarm of black wyverns, silver axes, and acrid smoke. The healers find a relatively unmolested oasis within sight of the palace and there set up camp. Natasha stays with them. It is not long before the wounded begin shifting in.

"Sister Natasha, take the one with the laceration," Father Moulder commands, taking the man with the collapsed lung under his own care.

She takes him, and dusts sand from his lacerated leg as best she can, but when she holds the staff to his torn flesh, the light which comes trickling out is so feeble, and she can't force it, that she ends up just delegating his care to a Frelian comrade and taking over triage. She's all bluster, like the wind, all business. She will be obeyed. Once, she even defiantly throws her head back and tosses her hair at the empty sky above. But then suddenly, there's Franz.

Only, it's not Franz – his mother's comb must be giving him luck – but it's the young Grad friend from Rigwald that he's supporting. Her arm is slung over Franz's shoulders, and he seems to be carrying most of her weight. Her left side is shredded with three deep tears, though she appears to be in once piece.

Franz cries, "Sister Natasha!"

She reaches out at once, calling to her colleagues. "Gerald, here's one for you now. You take her and I'll-"

The drawn-out caterwaul of a wyvern causes heads to snap up. A full squadron of the hideous beasts and their riders have broken through a pegasus wing and now speeds straight toward their encampment. The healing corps flies into panic. There are a few trees, but not enough to give any real protection. Both air and ground troops rush to regroup and meet the wyverns, but the healers and their patients have already scattered, and the wyverns beat the reinforcements to the healing tents. As the beasts and their riders dive low, the sand churns up beneath them, making those below choke as well as scream. Yet Natasha and her two wards are not entirely exposed.

"Here!" Franz shouts and hurls both females towards a small hollow under a stone outcropping. It's small, and barely shields the trio, but it offers more protection than the open air, in exchange for eliciting a horrid scream of pain from the injured girl. Natasha immediately takes hold of her so that Franz can crouch at the ready, sword drawn. In a matter of moments, a downed Grad rider rushes around the outcropping, looking for cover. Franz cuts him down with an efficiency that's surprising from one who seems as innocent as he.

Amid this racket of screeches and wyvern wings, Natasha helps the girl loosen her armour and then cuts away the fabric that obscures the full wound from view. The three gashes are not the worst of it. Her whole gut is swollen purple and throbbing. Her skin is otherwise pale and cool. In a moment of reprieve, Franz ducks back to join them, his eyes asking the obvious question.

"Do you have water?" Natasha commands.

He immediately hands her his half-empty water sling. She takes it and rips off her hood to use as a makeshift bandage and rinses the wound. "Was it a club? A mace?"

"Wyvern tail," Franz grunts.

The girl gasps and Franz grabs her hand with one of his and strokes her cheek with the other. "Don't you worry, Amelia," he clucks, "I've seen worse. It hurts, but it'll heal. Sister Natasha is the best."

"It's not how I wanted to meet her, though," Amelia croaks, hoarse.

"Yeah, talk about embarrassing. You'd better do some real heroics soon to make up for this."

"Next time I'll throw myself against a _bigger_ wyvern's tail." She gasps again. "Oh, wow, I'm dizzy." She peers quizzically at Natasha. "Who's she?"

Franz is right; the wound is bad, but she's fixed up worse. She brings her staff to bear on the most swollen area, seeking the source of the internal hemorrhage, willing herself to force through the wall damming up the flow of magic. A trickle of impotent energy sputters through but grows fainter. She shakes her head and refocuses. With clenched jaw and fists, she utters the incantation to encourage the free flow of magic. Nothing comes at all.

"I have to break through," she mutters by way of explanation, but it's different this time. In her gut, she knows it is. There will be no breaking through because there is nothing to break through to. The reservoir is dry.

With a cry of frustration, she throws down her staff.

Franz looks sharply. "What's wrong with your staff?"

"It's not working," she says, but it's a lie. She's the one who's lost her link to the healing light. If she knows anything, she knows this.

"I'll get another," he replies, and immediately moves to do so, but dives back under the hollow before he's taken three steps, a massive wyvern claw and then tail barely missing his head and shoulders.

"Idiot," hisses Amelia. "Stay here."

"Thought I'd get swiped since it was so much fun for you," Franz replies, terse, then turns to Natasha. "Where are the staves?" But his question is nearly drowned out by a screech overhead. The beast that almost clawed off Franz's head comes back for a second go-round, but this time the young fighter successfully lops off one of the animal's feet and nicks its belly, causing a bloodcurdling shriek that makes everyone cover their ears. No sooner does the wyvern beat its wings away than he asks again, " _Where are the staves?_ "

"Franz!" Amelia pants, "You can't leave! I can't defend!" She hisses again, then cries out, and falls back on her elbows.

"We need to bandage her tightly for the time being," Natasha decides, "Hold in her blood until we can get more help and supplies." But they have little with which to do the job. Amelia's whole abdomen is throbbing, her eyes unfocused. Probably the internal injury was exacerbated by the dive for cover.

Biting her lip, Natasha picks up her staff again and goes through the motions, but it's all as dry as bone - which is what Amelia will be soon if she can't figure this out. If Natasha's magic would just reach through the flesh, it would regenerate the damaged tissue and stitch everything back together, blood vessels and all. But, of course, it doesn't. She can't. She's a hoax. That last trickle of energy was all there is.

"No!" Natasha screams, grabbing her head and shaking it wildly. She tries again and again. Empty air. "Work!" she chokes. "Latona!"

"Franz?" Amelia's voice is higher than it was.

"That's it. I'm going-"

"It hurts-" she convulses and Franz dives back to comfort her. "Amelia, listen to me. You need to hold on, Amelia. You're so brave, and you're going to meet your mother, still. And you promised to be my shield, remember, and-"

The girl cries out weakly and slumps back, her eyes rolling into her head.

"Work!" screams Natasha. "Damn you, work!" Her face is streaked with blood and sand, but she has no tears.

Eventually the chaos diminishes enough for Franz to recruit real help, but by that point, the girl is too far gone for even Moulder to save her.

* * *

The sun is about to set, when all is said and the battle is done. Natasha stands by the rows of the dead. Their faces are covered, but there are not enough blankets to hide their full frames. The air is heavy with the smell of smoke and carnage. Natasha and her torn robe are caked all over with dried blood and sand. She shakes slightly, cold and brittle as a brown leaf. Her limbs are stiff. She'll probably snap apart if someone tries to touch her.

Eventually Franz comes out from among the shrouded ones. His elder brother walks with him. They both stop when they see her standing there, but the younger one doesn't quite make eye contact. Nevertheless, his voice reveals gentleness.

"I don't blame you," he says.

Natasha laughs softly. It's the most cynical sound she's ever heard from her lips, and it startles her. But, she follows through. "Yes, you do," she whispers.

"No, I don't!" says Franz, turning his face away. "It's not your fault!" But his voice cracks.

She laughs again, for lack of anything else in the hollow that used to hold her heart. "I'm sorry! I'm sorry! I-" She doesn't know what's meant to come next, and stops. So, she stumbles away and avoids Franz from then on. He is no longer her good luck charm. Franz avoids her, too.


	5. Honesty

**Chapter Five: Honesty**

The way is mostly clear back to Renais. They meet with foul beasts here and there, and Natasha solemnly does her duty. She does not tell Father Moulder that she can no longer use staves, but the older priest seems to sense the change in her. He does not leave her on duty alone, and renews the offer from their first meeting: "If you wish to talk or pray, child, I am here to serve you." But what can a priest from Frelia offer her? The gods have not abandoned _him._

After a minor confrontation with the undead, General Seth stops by the healing tent and asks her to mend an incision on his forearm – unusual for him. She cleans it, but then he resists when she attempts to pass him off to the other young sister on shift.

"Come, you do it," he insists. "I've seen little of you since Grado Keep. How are you holding up?"

"I am here and willing to serve," she replies, "only I am very tired today, General. Sister Elanor will be better able to attend to you than I."

He catches and holds her gaze with his penetrating brown eyes until she turns her face away. "This is not the Sister Natasha that I am familiar with," he remarks.

"This is the Natasha who admits her limitations."

"Does this have anything to do with Franz and Amelia?" he asks.

She hesitates to answer too long.

Seth grunts and withdraws his arm from her hands. "What happened out there?" he pushes, firmly, though not unkindly.

"I failed," she whispers and falls silent.

He prompts her to continue; she refuses. "I can't."

"Can't what?"

"I'm sorry, General!" Natasha exclaims. "Sister Elanor will see to you. Please excuse me!" She exits the pavilion and crosses the camp before anyone can stop her. She hides among the people milling about until she believes no one to be seeking her. Then she treks back to her own bedroll and tucks herself in, though it's only midday. When Father Moulder comes to check on her, she pulls her blanket over her head and tries for all she's worth to seem dead to the world. It's not a difficult ruse to pull.

* * *

It's a grey day in Renais, and threatening heavy rainfall, but it's no matter for those who call the small nation home. The victory fires are roaring high, challenging the skies to even try to dampen their flames. Though it's an emotional homecoming for many, Natasha is no condition to celebrate the reclamation of Ephraim and Eirika's homeland. She spent the actual siege and battle well back and doing little but laundry. Nevertheless, she owes it to them to at least pretend to be happy, so she makes artificial smiles for those around her.

Yet this is the army, and this is a war, and even supposed clerics suffering breakdowns can only be permitted so much idleness. Even while the victory festivities are ongoing, Father Moulder tasks her to go into town to collect supplies to replenish their dwindling stores. He gives her a list, a pack pony, and an escort. She carries her staff with her, as well, for the sake of appearances.

Natasha knows her escort, though his grin is quite diminished, and he's no longer a mere mercenary. "I'm sorry you were pulled away from the celebration on my account," she intones to Joshua as they take to the road.

"I volunteered," he responds. "My mother was recently murdered by one of my former best friends. If I drink now, it won't be in celebration."

"My condolences for your loss. It seems no one can escape the devastation brought by this war."

"Seems that way," Joshua responds.

He appears less game for conversation than what she knew of him before Jehanna, but then, so is she. It's surprising to see him in Renais at all, as everyone now claims that he is the heir to Jehanna's dead queen Ismaire, and therefore the country's ruler. If such is the case, leaving the desert country leaderless, to deal with its own dead, seems a foolhardy choice. Yet, whatever the case may be, she is glad to have him there to escort her. He helps her barter for new linen, kettles, tongs, and herbs in the marketplace, and loads up their pony with practiced efficiency.

Neither of them is in a hurry to return to the festivities, and the overcast sky means it's not unbearably hot, even in the mid-afternoon, so they meander from stop to stop, spending most, though not all, of their time in silence.

"You said… it was your best friend?" Natasha suddenly gasps in horror.

"Yeah."

"How incredibly, terribly unlucky!" she exclaims. "You really have had a run of misfortune!"

"Nah," he slowly sighs in return. "I'm just outta my league."

Though both their moods and the sky have been bleak all day, the wind picks up and it's clear that they must begin their return journey. But the forest road shields them from the worst of the wind, so when they pass an elm grove, Natasha asks whether they might pause to collect some bark.

Joshua pulls out his coin and flips it. "Heads," he nods. "You go ahead. I have to take a lea- I mean I need a moment to myself." He ducks behind the trees and disappears.

She takes some pleasure in being alone. Even when the clouds begin to pelt down on her, making it obvious that the coin toss failed them, she breathes a little easier and feels less stifled than when she's at camp. It's cold under the thunder, and the raindrops sting, but she is only bothered because it isn't safe for her to slice bark with a wet knife. She puts the knife away, gathers what bark she has, and returns to the road, where Joshua is waiting.

Only he's not waiting. He's lying face-first on the muddy pathway in a pool of blood, with a curved blade through his shoulder.

Near him lie two other men Natasha has never seen before. "Oh, Latona," she says in that sing-songy way that indicates a woman is about to panic. But, she doesn't panic. She blinks, her jaw drops, and her sodden robes cling to her suddenly-very-stiff form. And then her army experience proves to be not entirely useless, and she takes stock of the situation. Pony – still living, check. Additional vagabonds – negative.

She drops her armful of elm and crouches close to Joshua. He is still breathing, though barely. One of the other men is obviously dead, his head only half attached; the other will soon be dead if he is not already. She leaves the corpses be. They tried to kill Joshua.

It is no easy job to attend to him in the rain, with stiff and numb fingers and soggy linen. Nevertheless, she does what she can, and with great effort manages to drape him ragdoll style over the pony. Likely, he will not be pleased to hear of how he rode back to camp, but it's the best she can manage.

It's a long, slow slog back down the slippery forest path, and Natasha looks more like a mud monster leading a pony with a mutant growth on its back than a priestess with a patient under her care. If there are tears on her face, they are invisible under the rain. When Franz suddenly appears on the path ahead, cloaked and astride his chestnut mare, she nearly chokes, though whether from relief or embarrassment she hardly knows herself.

Franz leaps off his horse, nearly losing his landing in the sludge, but he recovers his footing and is looking over Joshua almost before Natasha can utter his name. Franz pulls off a glove and holds out his hand, feeling for breath. "Is he alive?" he asks hurriedly.

"Yes, for the time being. Franz, I don't understand!"

"Two men did this? Grey cloaks, green eyes, curved swords?"

"Yes."

"They passed through the capital, asking after Joshua," he responds, already pulling the man off the pony and moving him to his mare, "Apparently, not every Jehann thinks he ought to be king. As soon as we realized who they were, I was sent out to find and warn you two, but not soon enough! Gods! This is a mess."

Natasha positions herself to help Franz hoist Joshua up onto the horse with him, but Franz pauses and considers the man's bandage. It's entirely waterlogged, given the elements, and already an uncomfortably bright hue of pink.

"You'd better do another healing, Sister," he says, "It looks like it's still flowing pretty freely."

Ice shoots through her veins. He doesn't know - he _can't_ know! But he does know. He's looking at her intently, waiting to see her response.

"Not on the road," she says. "We need to get him back sooner than later."

Franz wordlessly snaps his eyes away and sets his jaw more firmly. Natasha arranges herself on the pony, though they go little faster than when she was on foot. Silently, they make their way back towards help. The downpour increases, the thunder rolls nearer, and the wind blows harder.

* * *

They pass a small farmstead, where Franz turns them off the road. Joshua has been making noise and growing pale, and the ride in the cold certainly isn't helping him. The farmer and his wife open their house to the trio and immediately send their sons on to the camp on behalf of their unexpected guests.

Natasha does what she can to improve Joshua's situation, while the farmwife bustles about doing what she can to improve Natasha and Franz's. They are sopping wet and pale with the cold, but inside the farmhouse it's warm from a fireplace, and dry. It smells of wood and fresh bread.

In a moment when the farmwife's bustling has taken her out of the room, Franz says, "I forgot to ask if _you're_ alright."

"Yes," Natasha replies. "Thank you for coming for us."

"Of course I came for you," he says.

But Natasha has made an unwelcome discovery. Joshua is twitching. It's the first symptom of a poisoned wound. She huffs nervously and drops her head into her hands. Franz brings in the herbs she purchased, still mostly dry from careful bundling, and they make a weak antidote, missing several ingredients. But the Light of the Everlasting can heal more than broken flesh. With the aid of even a weak antidote, a skilled priestess should be able to ward off the better part of such a poison's effect. Natasha does her duty, raises her staff, chants the incantation, and nothing happens.

The farmwife looks slightly disappointed by the anticlimax. Franz, who is hunkered with his elbows on the table, suggests softly, "Another bad staff?"

She tries again, and again, but it's mere choreographed movement. During service at the temple, on high days, Father McGregor used to be arrayed in so much holy regalia that as a child, Natasha wondered if there were a person inside those robes at all. Today, she is quite sure that there is nobody inside _her_ robes or skin. She must be a puppet.

Franz rouses her from her hollow speculations. "No," he growls, low but firm. "Natasha, you're one of the most skilled healers in our company. You rival even Father Moulder. You can heal him. You _will_ heal him."

Her heart flutters and a lump forms in her throat. She tries again, trembling. "More salve," she commands. Franz applies it to the wound. Natasha squeezes shut her eyes and throws herself back into her memory, blocking out everything that ever happened since her life was uprooted. All her focus and all her will come together. Franz is right. She can heal him. She will heal him.

Her staff remains a useless stick.

She grabs her hair and gasps in frustration, turning away.

"No! Don't you dare," says Franz, his volume increasing. "Do not turn your back. He saved your life – more than once. You owe this to him!"

Natasha turns back just as Joshua's body is wracked with larger spasms. He makes a gurgling noise. Franz reaches out and grabs hold of Joshua to keep him from falling off the table. Natasha cries out and her hands fly to cover her mouth, her staff dropping, abandoned, from her grip.

Franz's eyes are full moons as the staff smacks the floor. For a beat, there's deathly silence. But then, he lets loose. "Don't you dare," Franz yells. "This can't happen! Not again. Don't you dare let it happen again, Natasha!" He bites out her name like it's too distasteful a word to let linger in his mouth.

She titters hysterically. "I knew it!" she exclaims. "You do blame me! You do hate me!"

"What? No, I – just deal with this already!"

"Lies!" she shrieks, "Lies, it's all lies!"

" _Who's ever heard of a healer who can't heal?_ " Franz shouts back, throwing up his arms. "What are you doing? You're the representative of the Everlasting, and you're letting him die! _What's wrong with you?_ "

"What's wrong with me?" she cries, "I'm a priestess, and I don't even know if I believe in the Everlasting! Everything I've ever known has been upended, and I can't make sense of it. Because it's all lies! Every last bit of it!"

It would seem, however, that she doubts even her deep stores of doubt. Though her newly admitted cynicism tries, it doesn't completely take. "Well, most of it is lies," she whimpers.

Joshua begins to choke in earnest. Franz rolls him into a position where he can vomit freely, and the farmer's wife scurries to collect clean rags and water.

Natasha stares wide-eyed at Franz; he stares unblinkingly back at her. It's the calmest and most honest communication they can manage. Eventually, Franz's jaw sets. When he speaks, he is in control of himself. "Well, the _truth_ , Sister Natasha, is one you don't want to hear. But if you don't help him… well, poison is a nasty way to go, and I won't let that happen."

"I want to help him," she pleads. "I do!"

"Then help him."

"I don't know anything, Franz! I can't, I'm a sham. I don't understand anything." She is there again, under the sandstone outcropping, with Amelia bleeding out in her hands and Natasha wishing the rocks would cave in and bury them both.

"I have seen you heal!" he retorts.

"But that was before – I still thought I knew-"

"Who cares?" he shouts. "You don't have to _know_ anything! You're the one with the staff, not the one with eternity at your beck and call! Just do what you're supposed to!"

She can't help it, but bursts out crying. Crying for her uselessness. Crying for the guilt she carries. Crying for the frustration, for the sense of betrayal, for the loss of what she held so dear. She cries because the world is not the place she wanted it to be.

Outside, the gods are crying, too. The rain blasts the window with frigid tears and the wind howls in sorrow. The lightning sears the sky in anger and is followed by pangs of deep, moaning thunder. The grief of heaven is on full display.

In that grief, at least, Natasha and the gods agree. For one brief moment, they stand in solidarity. For one brief moment, her heart softens, and a vision sweeps across her mind, obscuring all else from view – it's a wyvern. Cormag's wyvern. He soars the sky, above the storm. And she is a kitten, held firmly but gently, in safety, against Cormag's chest.

Natasha blinks hard and the vision disappears. She is back in the farmer's kitchen, with the smell of bread and weak antidote in her nose. Trembling, she bends to retrieve her staff, though why she means to hold it she doesn't know. But no sooner does she touch it than she is aloft the wyvern once again, though in the thick of the storm this time, soaring along the edge of a great abyss. Two trees catch her attention, perched on the very edge of the cliff. The larger looks like it may fall at any moment. But then the vision changes, and she becomes that tree, and she knows she is rooted fast. She feels her arms as branches that reach out, stretching, growing, shielding the young sapling that sprouts up under her bower. She feels her roots tunnel deep, anchoring her solid, and holding steady the soil to keep the seedling tree from washing away. The rain comes down, but it is fresh and clean water, and she drinks deeply, growing stronger.

She hits her head on the underside of the table as she stands up. The images in her mind flit away, though the storm outside does not. Franz is staring at her, eyes full of a demand that his hope be fulfilled. And she would fulfill it, if she could. And Joshua lies yet on the table, pale, spasming, asking without words that she repay her debt. It is not her intention to abandon anyone, nor her intention to deceive. Not after all that her comrades have been through and done for her. Already she has let them down. She has let them down since the beginning, yet still they trust her to be who she is supposed to be - a healer, a representative of the Everlasting. She does not _wish_ to break faith with them. She does not _intend_ to break faith at all. A flickering wisp of flame stirs in her heart and Natasha begins to rummage around inside her cluttered soul, looking fiercely for her last scraps of belief. She finds pain and disillusionment and salty, bitter tears, but she does not stop looking.

 _Go, now, Natasha. Go, for the Light will shine with you_ _and before you_ _in all the shadowy places where you must walk._

She feels the soft touch of Father McGregor on her shoulder and is overcome with assurance that he _chose_ her, from among all others. She does not know why. She does not understand. She can only cast her eyes to the heavens and plead for mercy.

"Help me!" she cries, hoarse but fervent. "Help me, or he'll die!"

In desperation, she reaches out wildly for the faith that she had thought she'd flung away and even as she does so, she feels it reach out and grab hold of _her_. The flickering in her heart from scant moments ago swells until it envelops her whole being with the zeal of the first spring flowers. It blooms and sets down roots and shoots straight from her heart to her toes, her head, and her fingertips. The fragrance is beautiful.

She sobs, shocked, delighted, and no less confused than ever. But she does know one thing. When she lifts that staff and holds it over Joshua's wounds, he will be healed. It will not be Natasha who heals him, for she has no understanding and no power, but his torn flesh will be made whole. The poison will be eradicated. For the first time since Grado Keep, Natasha feels the Light pulsing within. The Everlasting has not abandoned her.

* * *

 _A/N: Next chapter will wrap it up. Hope to see you there!_


	6. Grace

**Chapter Six: Grace**

Joshua recovers. And when Franz comes to check on him in the healing tent back at camp, he lingers near the tent flap before leaving. He stiffly turns back to face Natasha, who is standing just inside, her hands clasped demurely in front of her.

"Sister Natasha," he begins, hesitant, "I think I need to apologize to you for something. I… I wouldn't say it if you didn't already know it, but I think maybe, deep down, I _have_ been blaming you for what happened to Amelia. I know it's not your fault, I do, but sometimes I have difficulty believing what I mean to believe. I'm sorry."

Natasha raises her hands to her heart, as if in prayer. It's a position suggesting vulnerability, but there is quiet strength in the tilt of her chin. "But Franz… I think it _was_ partly my fault," she admits, "and it grieves me greatly, that such a loss should happen on my account. I was struggling, then, as I was struggling with Joshua, and I could not set myself right. My eyes were clouded, and Amelia paid for it dearly. And because of her, you have suffered also."

Franz's brow furrows and he frowns, allowing an unpleasant lull to pass between them. He looks deeply into her eyes, then down at his feet. But finally he clears his throat. "Amelia was very precious to me," he says, voice drier than moments ago, "but you're also my friend. It would be a tragedy to lose not only her, but you too, because of it. Whatever happened that day, let's be friends again."

"Yes, let's!" Natasha cries, and after a moment of indecision, flings herself into a hug, surprising him. But he returns her embrace, and it's the first hug that Natasha has had in many long months. As they stand together, she feels all the guilt and shame she has been carrying – both hers and Father McGregor's – pull free and fly up and away to where someone wiser can adjudicate what they deserve. "Thank you, Franz," she whispers.

* * *

The festivities at Renais continue for some days, and the prince and princess distribute gifts among their troops. They present Natasha with a new robe, as the blinding white of a priestess's garb needs replacement fairly often during wartime, and since she is so often on the battlefield, they also gift her with a horse. But most meaningfully to Natasha, they also officially name her a valkyrie in Prince Ephraim's service. A valkyrie – a demi-god who can choose who lives and who dies on the battlefield. She has not that power, of course, the Valkyries of old having passed into legend. She can't match the determination of the enemy to kill. She has not the coldness and ruthlessness to be so successful. All she has is enough trust to believe that the Light of the Everlasting will use her to mend the hurts of others. But this will be enough. She will carry the valkyrie legacy well.

And she is called to serve quite quickly, for although the war is technically over, disturbing developments with Prince Lyon lead Ephraim, who is king now in all but name, to march out once again, this time in the direction of Rausten. When they meet enemies, neither Father Moulder nor General Seth try to hold Natasha back. It is clear to all that she is ready once again to be the Healing Spirit.

En route to Mount Nerelas, Cormag seeks her out. "Care for a ride?" he says, swooping low to bring his wyvern to a walk.

Despite her dreams, facing the actual prospect of climbing onto the beast and hanging on for dear life a league high in the sky makes Natasha more than a little nervous, but Cormag has never offered before and she suspects she should accept. So she inches closer, hoping not to be mauled before she makes it to the saddle, and the warrior helps her behind him. She wraps her arms around his waist and tries not to shriek when they lurch off the ground. The air is fresh and clean and brisk and eventually Natasha works up the courage to open her eyes.

After some silence, Cormag tells her that his brother is dead, killed at the hands of Valter, the crazed general whose demon lance Cormag now possesses, then glances over his shoulder at her and drops a rather important question into her lap.

"So, I can hunt down all those who served under him and turn his own lance against the last of his stinking memory," he states. "Vengeance for my brother's murder. Or I can forbear. Which do you advise, Sister?"

"Oh, don't," she says, "Please, forbear."

"I knew you'd say that," he grunts.

"Yet you asked me, anyway."

"Must I seek justice for Renais and none for myself?"

"I let a young woman die," she confesses, "and more have passed for my absence from the field. If I seek justice for myself, I will be slain. And so I must entreat you not to bring judgement down on your own head, either. Do your duty. Rebuild Grado. Let the gods strike the guilty down."

"The gods are the ones who let us plunge into this mess to begin with. I doubt they care very much about justice."

"Then," she replies, "perhaps we will have to forgive them, as well, until we understand their full purposes."

"Pat answer from one like you."

"It's the one I'm working with, at present."

Cormag huffs as they veer down to rejoin the company at the foot of the mountain. "I want to do it," he says, "I want to kill them, but at the river the other day, an archer sent a perfect shot straight at Genarog's lung. Spot on accuracy, and powerful. Would've killed Genarog immediately, and me on the landing, except for the amulet that got between the arrow and his scales."

"You still carry an amulet?"

He shakes his head. "Not me, no. The little monk from Renais gave it to Genarog. I just tied it to his saddle. Anyway, the amulet shattered, but it saved both our lives. And I can't get over it."

"You don't say."

Even though she is still behind him, Cormag can hear the compressed smile on her lips, and it makes him laugh. "Just hearing you happy cheers me up a bit, even if it is at my expense," he says. He drops her off where they are setting up camp for the night. "Don't worry too much about me, Natasha. I won't do anything rash. And I'm glad you're getting by alright."

Cormag leads off his animal, and Natasha helps with camp setup, but in her mind she ponders her own words. She gives tall advice, for certain. But perhaps she can abide by it.

* * *

They cross the stinking sulphur of Mount Nerelas, and though they lose the Stone of Renais in the process, they are welcomed into the marble halls of Pontifex Mansel. Rausten is a theocracy, and although she is very far from home, the temple-like architecture of the royal residence instills in Natasha a small measure of peace. The symbols and images are familiar, as though she has been tentatively readmitted into a family she had long left behind. The night is deep, and the halls are cool, and Natasha wanders the galleries soaking in the old yet new sights, awed by how everything is different, and yet the same.

She is touching a stained-glass window – it is too late at night to see its colours or picture – when another silent midnight wanderer emerges from the shadows and comes to stand beside her in the mottled moonlight.

"I don't usually linger in chapels like this," says Knoll.

"What brings you tonight?" she replies.

"Questions," he intones, and sighs, his face as shaded as the glass they are contemplating. He touches the tips of his fingers against the window and casts a glance, almost fearfully, around the perimeter of the room. "Always more questions. I thought I'd try inquiring of one I've long ignored."

They are kindred spirits, indeed, and Natasha finds herself opening up to him about all that has happened since they met in Grado. She sobs as she recalls her failure in the desert, and can barely whisper to him that the sight and touch of sand still drive her nearly to panic. She clasps her hands as she relays to him her uselessness in Renais, and wrings them with anxiety lived again as she tells of Joshua and the mud. But she also tells of the visions at the farmer's kitchen table, and laughs from sheer relief as she silently shows him that the tip of her staff against glows white.

The ragged man listens with a wan smile, and he seems to Natasha to grow ever so slightly, until he begins to fill out his tent-like cloak. "I've had little joy of my own, Sister, so please permit me to bask in the sweetness of your own."

They sit together in companionable silence on the wooden pews until the passing of the watch, drinking in the peace of the small sanctuary.

When the midnight bell signals the change of guards, Natasha rouses once again and addresses him. "In Grado, Master Knoll, you spoke of the prince foreseeing the future, and also of the death of thousands. You were making reference to a prophesied disaster, were you not? Father McGregor would not have dabbled with fate for merely theoretical gain."

"I was," he says, "though, do you wish to hear of this now that you've found your Light again?"

"Yes," she replies. "I will not fear losing it."

"Perhaps you should."

"No. I am learning," she says, raising her arms to indicate the shadows around them, "to live in the grey areas."

"Between knowledge and the unknowable?" Knoll queries.

She nods.

"Very well," he shrugs. "Within five years, half of Grado will be swallowed up by a great earthquake. The south of Grado will drop beneath the sea; the north will be devastated by refugees. The nation as we know it is slated for execution."

It is a long time before Natasha responds. When she does, her voice is dry but her resolve is clear. "I will return to her once this war is over, and do what I can for those who cross my path."

"That's very noble of you, Sister, but you hardly know what you're vowing. I would get as far away from Grado as I could."

"I suppose I _don't_ know," she admits. "But my fate is irrelevant. I will go where I am needed, and that will have to be enough."

Knoll's brow creases and he peers quizzically into her face. Though the chapel is unlit except for moonlight, her white cowl and pale skin make her appear like one of the finely carved statues set up in honour of the saints. "You are probably very naïve," Knoll announces, sitting back, "It's not exactly wise to walk straight from safety into the world's ending. Still," he adds, resuming his keen gaze, "If, in the end, you do as you say… perhaps you will allow me to join you."

* * *

The starlit peace does not last. Riev comes for Pontifex Mansel and the last remaining Sacred Stone during the wee hours of the morning, having crept up silently to the citadel unmarked. The attack decimates the palace guard, but Rausten has a card to play that Riev does not expect: the royal Renais twins and their compatriots, livid, and unwilling to relive the destruction of their own cherished capital. They rouse to great effect and form protective ranks around the Pontifex and the symbols of his rule. Smaller squadrons take to the halls, choking the assault and beating back Riev's sacrilege. The antechamber is fiercely contested, and that is where Natasha discovers that she is of most use.

It all happens before she can shout a warning. One moment, Franz is fighting near the doorway. The next, he has no head. It barely registers in her mind that the shrill scream reverberating in her ears is from her own mouth, that the string of curses being pronounced is by her own tongue. But scream she does, and raises her staff, for a valkyrie's tool is deadly as well as salvific. Franz's murderer raises his arms in a desperate attempt to shield himself, but it's no use. Natasha smites him with a bolt from heaven, and he flies from his spot, slamming into the wall, far from the threshold.

But he is not dead. And Natasha is no longer screaming. She is shivering with a cold radiance, and when she approaches him, she approaches him to kill him. The man scuffles in a panic on his burnt limbs, but there is nowhere for him to go. Their eyes meet as Natasha looms large over his mangled form.

"How dare you," she whispers, hissing like the wind. "How dare you?"

He doesn't respond, of course, too terrified by the rage-filled holy woman to even stutter a plea for mercy. But she looks into his eyes and sees fear, anger, confusion. She sees shock, pain, and desperation. She sees all the things she has seen in the eyes of others, and sought to heal. She sees her own self reflected back at her. But she does not see hatred. She stands, a brittle diamond pressed under the weight of the world, shaking to let loose, shaking to hold back.

 _How dare you_ , the wind whispers back to her and she knows, she knows, that Franz would have her stay her hand. But she has not the will, not enough. All she can do is grit her teeth and jerk her arm a fraction of an inch back, yet when she has done so, she hears a deep moan, mutterings she doesn't understand, and her body moves fluidly, turning her away, walking her to where an ally needs her help.

She bites her lip until she draws blood, but when the battle is won and she is helping to tend to the prisoners, she gives the man the salve he needs to ease his pain and restores what blackened flesh she can. She quakes, though not with rage.

* * *

Forgiveness comes slowly, but come it does. When Natasha encounters Franz's elder brother, she knows that his loss is the greater, as well his face tells, and she provides for his needs, silently, until at last he crumbles into a fountain of tears on her lap. General Seth, in turn, steadies Natasha with a gentle hand on her shoulder whenever they meet, and she reciprocates with a touch to his arm. Joshua also pays his respects to his friend, doffing his cap and volunteering with the gravediggers. He is grim, but says that he owes it to Franz to enjoy the life that the young man couldn't, and uses some of his coins to buy drinks all around.

When the company moves out for Darkling Woods, they are a bruised and battered bunch, but the light from Natasha's staff does not falter. It continues to glow before her, lighting her way. She knows the power does not originate from her, but she is no longer concerned that it will abandon her, either. It will get her by.

There are few who enter the inner sanctum of the dark god's lair, but Natasha is among them. Armed with both Ivaldi and Latona, she fights to make the world into the place she desires it to be. Her robes are no longer pure white, but are dirtied once again by the dust of long travels and the stains of great pain. Yet she does not bemoan the story they tell. She wields the legacies of her vocation, of her failures, of her friends. And when the shell of Prince Lyon caves and Fomortiis is slain, she stands tall amid the ruins and nurtures those who run to her for aid.

She will return to Grado and face the future. She will probably be beaten, but then she will be set on her feet once again. She will walk into the shadows and not be afraid. The shadows are where she shines the brightest.

* * *

 _A/N: Well, that's it, folks. Thank you for traveling on this journey along with Natasha and me. If you have been invested enough to come all this way, please leave me a review so that I can know what I did well and what I can improve. But if you don't, the time you spent following this story will be a compliment itself. Fare thee well, and may the Everlasting shine down upon you!_


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